


Drake's Women

by Praxus Goforth (PraxusGoforth)



Category: Danger Man
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:52:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7818619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PraxusGoforth/pseuds/Praxus%20Goforth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at the women in Drake's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drake's Women

John Drake was, by nature, a generally tidy person. He liked his jackets laid out on the arm of a chair rather than tossed on the floor, he kept his dishes set in the sink instead of piled on the entryway console, and he rarely left the bar of soap in the bathroom sitting in a puddle of gray water in its dish. He was infrequently home in any case, and when he stayed he could not be expected to be there for long enough time to make much of a mess. His flat, number seven according to its address, was well ordered, decently furnished, and rarely occupied. It was precisely the kind of residence preferred by housekeepers.

Drake could not understand why he had such trouble keeping one.

The first two had been flukes. It was not his fault the Czechs had decided to use his flat for minor surgery on the Wednesday that the first housekeeper came. And as for the second, well, how could he have known the Latvians would mistake her for his wife? That one still hurt, as she had done a particularly fine job with the dusting. The third and fourth he had carefully screened from any foreign interference, yet both had suddenly decided they did not care for the job within a month. He did not believe he was destined to simply live in squalor for the rest of his natural life, although it did begin to look like forces outside his control were plotting against him. This being nothing new, he pressed on.

The fifth in the series of housekeepers came on Mondays and Thursdays, and her name was Marlene. She had been highly recommended by the agency and served in many notable houses in London, none he had heard of. She had been keeping his house clean for the past three months and Drake sincerely hoped she intended to stay.

Drake did not keep a single scrap of his profession inside his flat. Nothing ended up in his wastebasket except for crumpled napkins and receipts for groceries. He kept no bugs, no tape recorders, and no listening devices. His flat was the product of a mid-priced interior decorating agency who had chosen all its furnishings to suggest the comfortable, if perhaps bland, life of a moderately successful bachelor travel agent who frequently went abroad. It was a very nice scheme, and felt rather like a comfortable hotel.

This did not stop Marlene from scouring every single inch of his residence on Mondays and Thursdays. He had to give her credit. She was very professional. She thought of a lot of interesting places to look that had never occurred to him, like under the carpet in his closet. And she always put everything back exactly as she’d found it, a detail he greatly appreciated, as he hated his things moved outside their order. His stack of bills in a jumbled pile in the middle of his desk were always arranged perfectly in place. You couldn’t even tell where they’d been steamed open. He sometimes wondered if she did this on site or if she had a confederate she passed them on to for processing elsewhere. And she didn’t do anything terrible like pry open the mantelpiece clock and leave scratches on it while looking for transmitters. He was sure she would never have scratched an antique like that, even if an interior designer had picked it out for him and it was not really a family heirloom.

No, the biggest problem Drake faced concerning his housekeeper was that she wasn’t finding anything. Surely her office would eventually pull their man out of a useless assignment when she continued to report on nothing. And she was a very fine housekeeper. Almost as good as the second in the dusting department, but she was even better at ironing. Drake, thinking of the massive headache of finding yet another housekeeper, decided he must act.

On Monday, before he left for the office, he scribbled a long series of numbers on a scrap of paper and wrote _Beirut_ at the top, then crumpled it into the kitchen rubbish bin. Was that too obvious? Considering his previous caution, perhaps she would suspect. He retrieved the paper and crushed it into a tighter ball as he wondered what to do. Burn it and leave its partial remains behind, as if it had simply not completely charred? No, that was getting silly. He went to his closet and stuffed the scrap deep in the corner of a trouser pocket. It was plausible that he might have forgotten it there. Maybe not his most subtle work, but effective enough.

He went to the office and afterwards several other places besides. It was a long day and he limped up the front steps. He had almost forgotten about Marlene housekeeping that day. At the door he remembered to jingle his keys around for quite a while to give her a chance to hide the evidence of her snooping. When he finally opened the door it was to find the sound of the vacuum running in his office. She was very quick.

The vacuum switched off and Marlene appeared inside the door frame.

“Evening, Mr. Drake. I didn't realize it was so late! I got a little carried away today, I’m afraid. I thought the curtains were looking a little dusty so I took them down for a wash, and then they needed ironing, and before you know it it’d gotten so late! I do hope I haven’t disturbed you.” Her accent was very good. Except for a faintest lilt at the end of her s’s he would have thought she was the native Englander she claimed. What was that lilt, something Slavic he couldn't quite place. Bulgarian? No, perhaps Moldavian. Slavic languages were never his strongest suit.

“No, no, not at all. They were looking a little dusty, thank you so much for noticing. I should have left a message with the agency saying I would be home earlier today.” Drake was mildly disappointed. Judging by the harried smile stuck on her face he had just caught her in the middle of some serious prowling, and based on the evidence clear from across the room that the curtains had not been washed at all, she’d had to come up with her cover story on extremely short notice. It was really not a very good cover, but Drake didn't value her for her covert skills, after all. It seemed the scrap of paper had ignited a flurry of activity in his flat, obviously looking for more slip-ups. He only hoped she’d managed to get to the rim around the tub amidst her other work.

But the scrap of paper wasn’t really very valuable anyway. A string of numbers, probably in unbreakable code, and a vague reference to a city he hadn’t been to in months? Surely her superiors wouldn’t be very impressed with that. Her desperation in staying so long might be due to almost having her assignment pulled. He pictured her stoically standing before her handler as he berated her in one of those Slavic languages for turning up so little and failing her country, then being reassigned to some other fellow’s housekeeping where she’d do her wonderful job of keeping everything so neat and efficient. Drake really wanted a whiskey and an ice pack for his throbbing kidney, but he also really valued efficient housekeeping.

“No, no, it’s my fault, I’ll just tidy up my things and be going,” she said with her strained smile as she unplugged the vacuum from the wall socket.

“Oh, please, don’t worry about it. I always hold in high regard people who try to do their jobs well,” he said. He saw a quick flash in her eyes, as though she wasn't sure what he’d just meant, but it was gone in an instant. “I just have a quick phone call to make, don’t worry, you won’t disturb me.” He set his hat and coat on the desk and went upstairs to his bedroom. At the phone on his bedside table he took a long time to dial the number. His phone wasn't bugged, at least it hadn't been when he’d last checked three days ago. He waited until he heard the tiny squeak of the floorboard on the top stair behind him before pressing down the receiver on the phone. The dial tone pulsed in his ear as he spoke in a rapid, guttural whisper.

“Hardy? It’s Drake. Listen, you've got to cancel the Beirut job right away. No, there’s no time, I've just learned from my man that the Moroccans are planning—well, tell them to find another drop site! It’ll be a massacre, we can’t foul up an operation as big as this. Yes, yes, better inform the others to keep quiet for now.” He paused as though listening. “I know, I hate to pull out too, you know how much planning I've put into this. But Beirut is just too important to let it go wrong. Right, sir. Thanks, sir.” He replaced the headset and waited for the second squeak as she went back downstairs before following her down. He heard her scurrying around the living room, gathering her supplies—cleaning and otherwise—as he lit a cigarette and drifted down the hallway. Once in the kitchen, he surveyed the pristine counters and scrubbed floor. Everything looked very nice.

“Good night, Mr. Drake,” Marlene called from the hallway.

“Oh, good night, Marlene. I say, you will be coming back again, won’t you? I've never had anyone clean my flat as well as you do.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Drake, I expect I’ll be coming back for a long time.” She smiled, and it was a private sort of smile at a personal joke. Drake felt very relived.

Once she’d gone, he poured himself a whiskey and collapsed in an armchair. Now that she’d gotten a juicy bit of information she was bound to step up her efforts. He hoped she wouldn't try anything embarrassing like planting bugs in his walls. That would be awkward to explain when he had to disable them. Well, he would figure something out. With a feeling of satisfaction at the cleanliness of his living room and the dull warmth of the whiskey, John Drake thought that it was looking to be a very long and rewarding relationship.


End file.
